Shantih shantih shantih
by Padfoot Reincarnated
Summary: James’ arms are warm, even if his feet aren’t, and the rhythm of his breathing is the lullaby that Sirius has been sleeping to since he was eleven. He wills time to stop, to let him remain thirteen in this moment forever. SBJP slash.


**So this is Sirius/James slash, if that wasn't clear from the summary. Each section of this fic is based off of a quote of The Wasteland by T.S. Eliot, so credit is his. Also, characters are JK Rowlings, as is Hogwarts and anything else you recognize. Because I like them. Plus, I realized last night that Harry Potter really is going to be over in July, and it made me really teary. Anyway, I doubt you're still reading at this point, and I know no one really cares about author's notes, so here's the fic, enjoy!

* * *

**

The Potters are going to Spain for Christmas, and Sirius is invited. He says yes before he even asks his mother; the ecstasy of friendship tugging him along to unnamed destinations.

He and James both wait until the night before they are leaving to pack. They laugh and speak in hushed voices as they rush around the room, trying to find socks and money and other things they wouldn't bother to use. James flings open the window and lets the falling snow drift inside, melting on their noses and eyelashes in tiny pinpricks of cold.

They delay: instead, playing games of secrets and story telling; saying in hushed voices what they never would during the day. The soft snores of the other two boys add the taste of urgency to the air, and they huddle up against each other for shelter when Peter rolls over and sighs.

There are gypsies around the portkey when they arrive in Spain; a camp full of them, some with ragged, handmade wands, some without. They sit beside fires in the early rising morning, warming their hands from the night and speaking in some low, foreign tongue. A small, dark-skinned boy runs up to them and tugs on James' cloak, and James slips him a galleon when his father's eyes are turned.

Mr. and Mrs. Potter are going out the first night, to some party or meeting—Sirius doesn't particularly care, except for he and James are left to their own devices. They ransack the closets and pantries of the crumbling, long-empty house, and find blankets and tents and fresh fruit from a morning trip to the market.

At that point, it seems almost _necessary_ that they do something, so they head down to the river, thin and dry from drought, with their backs heavy with supplies. They pitch camp beneath an old dead willow tree, and can't imagine being any older than thirteen. The tent won't stand up, so they spread blankets out on the sand and pretend to be gypsies.

James slips out of his clothes and dives into the river, which barely comes up to his waist. It's cold, and he whoops happily. Sirius grins and watches from the shore, holding his knees to his chest and squinting to keep the sand from his eyes.

The moon rises, full and yellow, and they manage to spook themselves with thoughts of werewolves. Sirius takes off his own clothes, and they trace patterns on their skin with river mud that Sirius says will keep them safe. The mud cracks as it dries, glass blankets protecting them from the cool night air.

Sirius watches as the stars tilt through the sky, wheeling overhead and making his head spin. A rock is jabbing into his shoulder, and he feels he really _is_ a gypsy, or something better: wild, feral, _free_.

"We're going to be in trouble tomorrow," James says sleepily, and Sirius closes his eyes and nods.

"Yeah," he agrees, and rolls a bit closer to his best friend.

* * *

"Those two—attached at the hip."

"I am _not_ jealous of them—why would I be jealous?"

"No, now that I think about it, I don't think I ever _have_ seen either of them alone."

"You mean they _aren't_ related?"

"Don't worry; people like that always end up bad."

"I know it worries his mother, but at least he has a friend."

"Oh, come _on_; don't be so naïve, why did you _think _they were so close?"

He feels a little isolated when he's with James, but as much as he loves being close to the world, he loves being close to James better.

* * *

It begins in the twilight of summer, when shadows are beginning to stretch and the shape of the year is beginning to become clear.

Laughing—trembling—hesitating—that's how it begins, because they don't know how to do it any other way.

It _could_ be an accident when Sirius kisses James' mouth, eyes still open and fingers splayed, questioning. It could be a joke when James pulls him closer and runs his fingers through his hair. When they pull back, they are laughing after all; but it is the laughter of children at something new; it is the giddiness at new beginnings and the eagerness to pull closer—closer—

"James," Sirius says, not needing to say anything more.

James smiles uncertainly, but his eyes are sparkling. He nods a little.

Sirius kisses him again, nectar and pollen drifting into their hair and eyes and bathing them in gold.

Fresh—_new_—fragile—

Someday, Sirius thinks, Someday, someday, someday.

* * *

It feels like a cliché that it rains the day he leaves home, but the whole summer has been wet and gray and it probably wouldn't have mattered if he'd waited a day, or a week, or a month.

When he pulls his sopping t-shirt over his head, he feels James watching the arch of his back. But when he turns to stare back, he doesn't find the admiring eyes of a lover but the sad love of a friend

It's too much for him, and he cries. James never mentions it again, and comforts him with arms instead of lips. If he could have chosen, it would have been different; but this is what he needs.

"I don't deserve this," he thinks he says once, only half joking.

"You do," James says certainly.

They sleep in the same bed that night, and Sirius feels James wrapped around him. It might have been uncomfortable—James' elbow is jutting into his breastbone, and when he breathes James' hair tickles his nostrils.

But James' arms are warm, anyway; even if his feet aren't, and the rhythm of his breathing is the lullaby that Sirius has been sleeping to since he was eleven. He feels safer here than he did in his own bed just last night, lost in king sized blankets and pillows that smothered his head. He can _breathe _here—he always can, when he's with James.

Long after James is curled up asleep at his side, Sirius is still awake. He notices the tiniest details of James' face and stores them away—a patch of freckles under his left eye, an old jagged scar at the edge of his scalp from Care of Magical Creatures.

When he sleeps that night he doesn't dream, for the first night in a long time.

* * *

They spend the afternoon under the oak tree by the lake. James fingertips are caught in Sirius' hair, and Sirius tilts his head back and smiles, lazy and content. The bottoms of his shoes carve patterns in the sand, and waves come up to lap the bottom of his rubber soles.

When they grow bored, they scramble up the tree, clawing their fingernails into the bark and wincing as splinters slide into their palms. Their bare feet clutch the naked branches and kick dry leaves to the ground, and they stop to rest halfway to the top.

They are completely hidden to anyone who looks from the ground; hanging close to the trunk and watching brightly colored leaves slowly tumble along the dry ground.

They go to bed early that night, barely eating anything for dinner, and move to separate beds before Peter and Remus come in.

Sirius is motionless in the minutes before he can manage to make himself go to sleep. He revels in the ache of his stiff muscles and joints, and imagines that this is what it is like to grown old.

The sun is still setting behind the Whomping Willow, and already he is waiting for tomorrow.

* * *

It's after the funeral, James' mother, three months after his father (_a heart attack_). Not that it matters _when_, really.

They throw handfuls of earth into the grave, covering the oak lidded coffin with black soil. Sirius watches James as he takes his turn, staring directly into the hole in the ground and letting the dirt slip through his fingers with a finality that Sirius doesn't recognize in James.

When he is done he pushes through the crowd; ignoring Remus and Peter, and clenches Sirius' hand so tightly it hurts.

"Come with me," James whispers roughly against Sirius' cheek, his chapped lips brushing Sirius' earlobe and his eyelashes lost in Sirius' hair. He tugs Sirius back, back, back; they stand between flying carpets and portkeys and are lost in the empty plain.

Sirius grips James' hands and runs his thumbs along James' palms. He stares into the grief stricken face of his _best friend_ and refuses to look away: he loves James even like this, crumbling, falling, ashamed.

James is sobbing as he grabs Sirius by the shoulders and tugs them together. Their mouths meet clumsily, bumping against each other almost accidentally. Their movements are rough and jerky, hands shaking, and when they kiss they taste the salt of tears.

When James' knees give way, he pulls Sirius down beside him; Sirius feels James' fingernails dig into his shoulders. His mouth is hot and wet against Sirius' neck, and his eyes are lonely and desperate. Sirius kisses his lips slowly, and he sees the blue summer sky behind his black hair.

"Listen, Sirius—" James begins, voice trembling. Sirius cuts him off with his lips.

"I love you, too," he says, and means it.

* * *

He sees James' eyes following her, across rooms and up stairs, chasing the bright swath of her red hair and the brilliant glint of her bottle green eyes.

He watches, and says nothing, because it will be over soon, he knows. James loves _him_.

A crush, that's all it is.

He comes into the Common Room once, and finds them talking in the corner. _She_ twirls a lock of her hair around her finger and tilts her head when she smiles.

"Do you have any plans for Hogsmeade this weekend?" he hears her ask, peering at James through heavy eyelashes.

"I, um, actually—" James sees him in the door and stops, face blushing a guilty shade of red. "I have to go."

Her face falls, and she sighs. Her eyes follow James, as he has followed her so many times.

"I was just talking," James says by way of explanation, even though Sirius hasn't asked anything.

Sirius nods and says nothing.

"Sirius?"

He hesitates. "James," he answers heavily, the words barely making it past his throat to cross his lips.

"You're still—I mean—" he glances around the Common Room to make sure no one is watching, eyes glancing over Lily like she is nothing. "I still love you. Okay?"

Sirius smiles, and manages not to laugh. "Yeah. Okay." By that time, the Common Room is empty, so he leans forward and kisses James. He loves watching James' face while they kiss, but this time he keeps his eyes closed, so he won't have to see a pair of hazel eyes staring over his shoulder, following a pair of footsteps up the staircase to the girl's dorms.

He breaks away. "I'm tired," he says.

"Yeah," James agrees quietly. "Let's call it a day."

* * *

When it ends, he is almost expecting it. The snow is melting, and the paths around the grounds are below two inches of water. He sloshes through it on his way to classes, and is conscious of the movement around him.

He thinks he might have had forever, but in the end, it is only a moment. And now the earth is springing to life, and time is moving, and he can't—he can't—

He skips Herbology, and grabs his broom from his trunk instead. He hovers high above the castle and sees there are still patches of white between spans of green, but it doesn't matter; the tide has turned, and the snow will be gone tomorrow to make way for young grass and tulip heads pushing their way through the still wet earth.

When he lands, James is there, leaning against the mossy stone of the castle and watching him so carefully that he almost hopes for a minute.

"Listen—Sirius," James says, so painful that it makes Sirius shudder and close his eyes to hear it.

He turns away from James and cuts him off. "I know," he says brusquely. "It's fine."

James comes up behind him. James' face is just beside his, and if he wanted to it would be so easy to tilt his head a little to the side and find familiar lips to touch and glasses pressing against the bridge of his nose.

Instead he steps forward, and shrugs off the brush of James' fingers against his cheek. "It doesn't matter," he says, even though he _knows_ that he isn't speaking clearly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees James nod. "We'll always be friends," James says, and Sirius squeezes his eyes shut because it shouldn't need to be _said_.

He turns around and manages a smile. James sighs, nods, and hugs him; and the weight and the meaning is so unfamiliar he has to stop and think about it before he returns the embrace.

"I think I'll fly a bit more," Sirius says, and deliberately doesn't notice the look of relief on James face. He needs more space between the earth and himself.

"Yeah…I'll see you back in the Common Room," James says.

Sirius watches him leaving: the downward tilt of his shoulders, the way he lifts the bottom of his cloak and bounces a little before he steps into a puddle, the way his face tilts up when he steps into a patch of sun.

Maybe, Sirius thinks. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

**So? Thoughts? All reviewers get...a place at Hogwarts. Next year. Yeah! Cause I can totally guarantee stuff like that. Or, if you prefer, a homemade cookie.**


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